Keep a Lid on It
by Original-Z
Summary: Warning: Crack!Fic.  All Rachel wanted to do was open a jar of pickles. Simple, right? ...Right?


**Title**: Keep a Lid on it  
><strong>Author<strong>: Hippo_Crat  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13  
><strong>Length<strong>: 2,630 words  
><strong>Spoilers<strong>: AU Post Sectionals  
><strong>Summary<strong>: All Rachel wanted to do was open a jar of pickles...  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Minor Rachel/Quinn  
><strong>AN**: **rusty_tiffany** wanted something cracky for her birthday. So I wrote this. (Several weeks late, but it's finished.)

* * *

><p>Rachel opened the fridge door and stooped slightly as she tried to spot the jar of pickles amongst the bevy of condiments. Since her family was fully committed to take-out what the refrigerator tended to lack in raw ingredients was more than made up for by the wide array of condiments, sauces and toppings her parents kept stocked.<p>

To the right of the olives and the left of the capers the tiny brunette located the jar of kosher dill pickles. The vessel was somewhat large and unwieldy in her small—not at all mannish—hands but Rachel got it safely to the island of her kitchen without any mishap. The brunette scurried back and forth between various parts of the kitchen and the island until she had all the necessary ingredients for the sandwich she was making.

Several minutes of meticulous preparation later the sandwich was assembled. Rachel wasn't one prone to hyperbolic statements of self-adulation but this was one glorious-looking sandwich. The only thing that would make it better—truly a work of art—would be the kosher dill pickle accompaniment.

Rachel pulled the glass jar closer and twisted off the lid.

Well, that's what she _tried_ to do.

When the singer tried to twist the lid off she was met by resistance. Brown eyes rolled in irritation. Of course, she **would** have to be the first to open the jar. Rachel pulled the pickles closer to her on the island and put more vigor into her twist.

Still nothing. The pickle jar refused to yield.

Rachel exhaled in frustration so forcefully that it caused her bangs to fly upwards. The petite teen grasped the jar in one hand and held it against her stomach. With a grunt from exertion Rachel added torque to her twist and rotated her hand against the unmoving lid for several seconds.

The lid remained firmly fastened.

With patience borne of years of practice keeping her temper Rachel gently set the jar back on the counter and picked up a tea towel. Using the extra grip the fabric afforded her the brunette easily twisted the stubborn lid off the jar.

Well, that's what was _supposed_ to happen.

In reality the jar was no closer to being open than it was two minutes ago.

Grumbling to herself Rachel stalked over to the sink, shoved the jar under the spout and turned the faucet on full-blast to hot water. She carefully counted out 120 seconds. "One Stephen Sondheim, two Stephen Sondheims, three Stephen Sondheims…"

Rachel set the [now hot] pickle jar on the abandoned tea towel while she hastily search the kitchen drawers for the ridiculous plastic thing her Dad had purchased for this exact occasion. Several drawers were pulled open and slammed shut in quick succession. Finally she found the rubber grip in a cabinet underneath a never-before-used colander.

She briefly skimmed over the directions on the back of the packaging before ripping the cardboard apart. Rachel draped the rubber over the top and gave a vicious wrench to the pickles. Even though she'd half expected it Rachel was still disappointed when the container didn't open.

The fuming diva slammed the fat neck of the jar against the edge of the counter repeatedly and then tried once more to jerk it open. Her efforts were futile.

Rachel returned the container to the counter and began pacing the kitchen, brainstorming the various ways she could open the obdurate vessel.

For a long time she simply glared at the blasted container as if she could open it with the full force of her psychic will alone. Inspiration struck and she dove for the drawer which housed all the eating utensils. In triumph she pulled out a butter knife. Rachel turned on the jar with a semi-demented gleam in her eye.

"It was a valiant effort, Pickle Jar, but since I have a highly developed frontal lobe and opposable thumbs I'm afraid you're no match for me." The petite singer shoved the mostly-blunt knife under the edge of the lid and began to carefully pry the metal from the glass.

After almost a minute's worth of effort wriggling the knife to and fro she pulled the blade away from the jar. The brunette gaped at the knife in disbelief—the stainless steel had bent under the force she'd exerted. Absolutely disgusted, she didn't bother trying the lid and threw the bowed knife into the sink.

* * *

><p>Rachel stared at the jar of pickles.<p>

The pickles failed to return the stare as they were dead vegetables and thus incapable of staring to begin with.

Beads of condensation trickled down the glass jar.

Rachel glared at the jar of pickles.

Even rows of white teeth bared themselves in a threatening snarl. Rachel pointed an accusing finger at the inanimate [but still somehow _smug-looking_] object. "Just you wait—when I find that brick, you're going to be in a **world** of trouble."

* * *

><p>For several minutes the kitchen was near silent. The only discernable sound was the steady drip of the faucet that Rachel had failed to shut entirely. The jar of pickles didn't seem concerned by the tiny human's threat and sat on the counter patiently waiting for something to happen.<p>

This was the most boring part of being a jar of pickles—the _**waiting**_.

* * *

><p>Rachel threw open the back door entrance to the kitchen and resolutely marched back inside. The wood door met the wall with a satisfyingly loud <strong>THWACK<strong>.

In her frenzied departure she'd neglected to put shoes on before leaving so now she was trailing tiny, muddy foot prints all across the interior of the formerly immaculate Berry kitchen. This was immaterial though as she had retrieved a brick from the shed behind her house—as promised—and she was now so close to victory she could taste it.

Victory would taste like pickles.

Rachel closed in on the defenseless jar and raised the brick high over her head. A fearsome war cry was given as the tiny brunette brought the brick down with great speed. The downward trajectory of her strike was halted when a much larger, much more calloused, hand closed around her wrist.

* * *

><p>"Sweetie I thought we've talked about this; <em>people <em>solve problems by using words, _**apes**_ solve problems by using rocks." Leroy Berry's rich deep voice easily reverberated off of the pristine metal surfaces of the seldom used kitchen.

"Your father's right, I thought we'd gotten past the smash it with a hammer phase—yours only lasted six years." Hiram chimed in from where he leaned against the doorjamb.

Rachel glared at both of her parents. "You've both interfered in matters beyond your comprehension. This jar of pickles is evil and therefore it must be destroyed. I do this not for me, but for the good of this household."

Leroy raised an eyebrow and stared down at his daughter. The stare seemed to have the ability to turn back time as before his eyes Rachel deflated and seemed to turn into the pouty, four year old girl he used to swing over his head. Not that he couldn't still do that with pouty, _16 year old Rachel_; it's just she didn't appreciate it as much.

"The lid is stuck." She mumbled in an adorably sulky fashion.

"Lucky for you this is where my much maligned Y chromosome comes in handy—killing bugs and opening jars are my specialty." Leroy easily held the jar in his large hands and gave the stubborn lid a firm twist. Rachel could pinpoint the exact moment her daddy realized the lid wasn't going to come off so easily as his eyes widened and then narrowed and his lips pursed.

She watched with amusement as the tall man struggled with the lid while simultaneously trying not to let his daughter or his husband realize he was experiencing greater difficulty than initially anticipated. After almost 30 seconds Leroy changed tactics.

"Obviously you damaged a thread trying to pry it open." Leroy ignored Rachel's affronted gasp. "A couple of whacks to the bottom and when you turn it over—viola!" Except the jar didn't open.

"Bravo, Daddy. Can you do it one more time—I was blinded by your brilliance". Rachel said dryly from her spot next to her Father.

The tall, black man grunted in a sullen fashion that Hiram found amusingly similar to their daughter's sulky expressions. "The lid's defective. I'll get another jar on my way home from work tomorrow."

"I can't believe this; my husband and daughter both bested by a pickle jar? Will wonders never cease? Let me get the camera to commemorate this noteworthy occasion." Hiram chuckled at the identical glares he was receiving.

"Okay, wise guy. Why don't you give it a try?" Leroy snarked, eyeing his husband with displeasure.

"I thought you'd never ask, Dear." Hiram crossed the kitchen in several efficient steps, lecturing as he did so. "All you have to do is release some of the air pressure in the jar." He said as he rifled under the sink through small toolbox kept there. "Ah ha!" he cried out enthusiastically holding up an ice-pick.

Leroy's eyes grew wide and he cried out. "Not _Basic Instinct_!"

Hiram's light brown eyes rolled so far back into his head Rachel was worried they'd get stuck there. "Ha. Ha. Very droll, Dear. Ignore him, Rachel, in the future all you have to do is make a small hole to equalize the air pressure and the jar will open easily." The balding man clenched the ice pick in his right hand while steadying the jar in his left.

Leroy frowned. "You're not really going to–**DUCK**!" Rachel and her daddy dove for the safety of the nearest cover when it became evident that Hiram Berry intended to stab the lid of the pickle jar with an ice pick.

Hiram pursed his thin lips and wiped the generous coating of pickle juice off his glasses. "Perhaps I was a tad overenthusiastic…but it worked. I made the hole and the air pressure has equalized"

From under the breakfast nook table Rachel called out, "So open it, then." In another situation the shade of pink Hiram turned as he struggled to open the recalcitrant pickle jar would have been amusing.

* * *

><p>The balding man set the jar on the counter and stared at it for a long moment. The muscles in his jaw bunched under the skin as he ground his teeth quietly. It was a terrible habit of his when irritated that his daughter had picked up.<p>

"So! Where _**did**_ that brick go?" Leroy asked brightly searching the counter for the waylaid brick.

"No one is bricking anything." Hiram said firmly. "We're all brilliant and rational adults or tiny-near adults here. Surely one of us can come up with a solution Fred Flintstone wouldn't have suggested."

The skeptical glances of his husband and daughter were less than reassuring. Gamely, Hiram tried to think of a solution. He brightened when he remembered something he had purchased off of QVC ages ago. "Rachel did you try using that _Lucky Lefty Lid Loosener™_ I purchased?"

The petite brunette left the shelter of the table and unenthusiastically held up the rubber gripper thing she had dug out earlier. "I already tried that."She said flatly.

Hiram eyed his daughter skeptically. "Where are the directions? Are you sure you did it right?"

Rachel's dark eyes flashed angrily. "It's not rocket-science, Dad! If there is one thing (among many) that I pride myself on it is the fact that I always read the user manual. Besides look at this thing—do you really think I would mess this up?" In a huff the petite singer slapped the rubber grip on the metal lid and gave a mighty wrench to illustrate just how stuck the damned lid was.

With a gentle **POP** the lid of the pickle jar freed itself from its bond with the glass neck. Hiram, Leroy and Rachel all stared in disbelief at the circular piece of metal resting in Rachel's palm—acting as though it hadn't been the center of outrageous controversy.

* * *

><p>"Well okay then," Leroy panted, still trying to catch his breath from his previous exertions. "Enjoy your pickles, Rachel." The dark-skinned man smiled weakly and began to stagger out of the kitchen.<p>

"They're not _**my**_ pickles." Rachel said—placing the jar and the lid on the counter—defensively distancing herself from the pickled cucumbers. Something about the pristine surfaces of the kitchen's counters was off to her but after all the jar drama she honestly couldn't remember why she had been opening the jar of pickles to begin with. One thing she _**did**_ know was that they certainly weren't for **her**.

The tall man felt his right eye twitch. "Well they're not _**my**_ pickles." Dark eyes glared at the jar accusingly. With eerie synchronicity two heads swiveled as one as Rachel and Leroy both turned on Hiram Berry.

"Oh don't even try to pin this one on me! I just got home—besides which of us was trying to brick the jar to death?" The accusing looks jumped from Hiram back to Rachel.

"As much as I love witnessing my father throw me under a metaphorical bus I'm afraid you're sadly mistaken; I don't like pickles." Rachel sniffed disdainfully and crossed her arms.

Leroy threw his arms in the air in a fit of dramatic piqué; it was easy to see where his daughter had inherited her dramatic displays of temper from. "Of course you eat pickles—you're a _**vegan**_!" The last word was uttered as if it were the worst insult in the world.

Rachel stepped closer to her Daddy and poked the large man in his gut. "Just what are you implying _Daddy_-_**Dearest**_, because I am **quite** certain I don't like your tone." And that was all it took to send Leroy and Rachel barreling into another one of their infamous—but good-natured—arguments.

Hiram, from his relatively safe position at the breakfast nook, could barely restrain his tears of laughter at the absurdity of the whole situation. His husband and daughter were hurling increasingly ridiculous allegations at each other. He was almost certain they were making up words; 'pickle-dultery', 'pickle-philia' really?

From the vantage point of the nook Hiram was the first to notice Quinn walk into the kitchen. The pregnant teen was so inured to the ridiculous arguments Rachel and Leroy enjoyed she didn't bat an eye at the wild gesticulations.

* * *

><p>Quinn stood at the sink and washed her plate and glass- seemingly oblivious to the argument raging behind her. As the blonde teen turned to exit the kitchen Hiram realized Quinn was wearing ear buds.<p>

Quinn turned to leave the kitchen when a familiar, powerful odor hit her like a two-by-four. Salivating, the pregnant teen turned and locked onto the open jar of pickles sitting on the counter. "Oh, pickles!" The former cheerleader perked up and fished one of the kosher dill pickles out of the brine.

Leroy, Hiram and Rachel all stared as Quinn devoured three large pickles before stopping to hold back a burp. "Rach, these pickles would have been fantastic on that sandwich you made me".

Rachel could feel her parents' eyes on her as she flushed heavily. Throughout the stress of opening the thrice damned pickle jar the petite brunette had forgotten the whole point of opening the pickles was to add it to the sandwich she'd made for her hormonal, pregnant and moody girlfriend. In her defense sometime during the brief window of time Rachel had been absent the kitchen Quinn had come in, put all the ingredients away and absconded with the sandwich. Rachel smiled sheepishly at her Daddy who was unsubtly gloating.

Détente firmly established the three Berrys watch the newest member inhale all but two of the pickles with fond (smitten, in Rachel's case) smiles.


End file.
